


A Tender Little Thought

by magpiespirit



Series: Partners in Time [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adult Communication, Anxious Crowley, Cherub Aziraphale, Crowley Helps Aziraphale with His Consent Issues, Crowley Likes Being the Hero, Established Relationship, Friendship, Kissing, Locked in the Closet, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pre-Canon, Protective Aziraphale, Protective Crowley, The Arrangement (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:00:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21790264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpiespirit/pseuds/magpiespirit
Summary: Through the Arrangement, Crowley learns how to love and be loved. It hurts, but not in ways he'd expect, and his angel is worth it. Aziraphale, for his part, learns how to be vulnerable.(Missing scenes, often dialogue-heavy.)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Partners in Time [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1505432
Comments: 41
Kudos: 109
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations





	1. Prologue: Hell, ~350 AD

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley's journey is not completely contained here. I've separated it for tonal reasons; this installment contains missing scenes from episode 3 of the miniseries with information that ties into the Parters series and draws inspiration from the book. Another installment will flesh out Hell (and Crowley's relationship with Hell) and Crowley's evolving stance on non-Godly love, and I'll probably do a standalone "between the Apocalypse and the Trial" fic, but for now, here's the sixth installment.

Shkithra is a new demon, an ascended — or descended, as the case may be — human. In life, they didn’t amount to much, other than a little blood magic and some minor pool enchantments to aid in their survival-necessitated con artistry, but the thing that granted them demonhood in the end was the sheer  _ devotion  _ to Beelzebub by way of Dagon through Crowley’s carefully-laid breadcrumb trail (ultimately, this “reward” is for their devotion to Satan, the glory-thieving— well, he is as he’s always been). Ascension is a rare honor bestowed only on those unfortunate enough to have genuinely served Hell in life.

Shkithra was not their name in life. Like everybody else in Hell, they were assigned a name until they choose their own. Loosely translated to something human, it means “suck-up,” but the new demon doesn’t Know why that’s hilarious and cruel. Not yet, anyway, and it’s too funny to let them in on the joke. Crowley watches Shkithra fret, wringing their hands as they walk down the corridor from Reception next to him. This is the sixth junior tempter _this year_ who’s been discorporated by Crowley’s ~~toy soldier~~ _special angel,_ and the stories are only getting weirder. 

“I lost my mind,” the junior demon says. “He asked about you and I got so jealous — I attacked him — did he put a  _ love curse  _ on me? He shouldn’t know how! That’s black magic!”

Crowley laughs through his own sudden surge of jealousy (Shkithra is objectively pretty, with olive skin and big,  _ bright  _ eyes that would definitely appeal to Aziraphale’s aesthetic sense, in size and shape if not in number), because of course a demon would jump to that conclusion. They forget all too quickly their angelic design, maybe out of spite, and Shkithra never knew in the first place; they’re working off biased information. He pats the demon on the back and hip-checks them into a stalagmite, because he might have a soft spot for the juniors, but it’s because they’re a great source of schadenfreude, not because he’s  _ nice.  _ “Kid, Aziraphale is an  _ angel  _ stuffed into a human suit. There’s some leakage. Humans are designed to love angels nearly as much as they fear them, and you were wearing a human suit too. It’s easy to turn off the human response, but you have to know it’s there first.”

“Well, I’m not going up again if I can help it. That angel’s terrifying,” the other demon sulks. “You can have the job back.”

“Oh, thanks so much,  _ how  _ I’ve missed being tortured by Heaven’s emissary,” Crowley says, sounding sarcastic but in fact being honest. “How’d you die?”

“This is where it gets weird.”

“Try me.”

“Well — I think he has a grudge against Pinney, you know, from the Lust department? We were there tag-teaming our target, and that angel called down lightning on him! It didn’t even hit me, but it must’ve hurt like anything! And then — and then he…” The demon  _ shudders.  _ Crowley lifts an eyebrow, nonplussed. It’s not like that ability hasn’t been documented; Crowley is  _ intimately  _ acquainted with death-by-angelic-lightning, although his discorporation was Aziraphale’s first try, and it was hardly as neat as Shkithra’s describing it. “I didn’t see much. It was so  _ fast.  _ He spat fire at me. It should have been a painful death, but it didn’t feel like anything. I just...discorporated, and suddenly I was here. It didn’t hurt at all, it was just warm. The other juniors and I were talking, and after everything we’ve seen...in addition to your reports...we think the Principality Aziraphale can wield Hellfire.”

Crowley doesn’t want to laugh — really, he doesn’t, because the rumor that Aziraphale can wield Hellfire could come in useful next time someone questions why Crowley didn’t just do away with his adversary when he had the chance. But he can see the shape of events even as the demon recounts them. He’s almost certain that Aziraphale took pity on the young tempter, barely grown into their wings, and redirected some fire from the lightning strike, doing some kind of magic to make it as painless and least traumatic a discorporation as possible; additionally, he probably still despises Pinney as much as Crowley does for being a ladder-climbing sleaze who was willing to rape an angel for the prestige. Aziraphale might not have much tolerance for acts of evil, but for some reason he’s only a bastard when pressed into it, and the minor temptations planned for the juniors are hardly worth note. Pinney’s always worth a lightning strike or twenty, but that’s a separate issue.

Crowley wants desperately to go back to Earth. He never wants to go back again. He’s had a couple of decades to think on things, waiting for his application for a new body to be processed, and he’s still angry with Aziraphale for the most recent discorporation, but—

Aziraphale forgave him for Eden. And for the warrior princess. And for Sodom. And for the blessed  _ patriarchy.  _ They have some pretty severe differences, but Aziraphale has never actually asked Crowley to change. Whatever was going through the angel’s stupid head was probably, overall, no worse than anything Crowley’s thought. It’s a new era; even the humans have new rules, or at least, the same rules in some prettier packaging with a more flexible return policy. The only rule for this  _ thing  _ between them has been, thus far, that Nobody Can Know.

If Aziraphale wants to make up some rules, that means Crowley can make up some rules too. That has appeal.

“Don’t worry,” he says to the junior demon, “I’ll have my new meat suit soon and I’ll keep his attention. You probably won’t have to even look at him again. But in case you do, for Satan’s sake, disable your hormone receptors, at the very least. It won’t do anything for your spiritual  _ senses,  _ but your human incorporation will be protected from spiritual  _ damage  _ from that...love beam the angels do.”

“Is that how you kept yourself from, er, falling in love,” Shkithra asks tentatively.

“Yes,” he lies. “Easiest fix in the world.”

(For Shkithra, it will be. It had  _ better  _ be.)


	2. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW for possible triggering content. Nothing worse than anything else in this series, but a different iteration of similar themes

Despite the good his 50-year stint in Hell did for his head, Crowley enters the new world wrong-footed. He’s never been particularly graceful, and now he doesn’t even know the steps to their dance anymore. Since the fall of Eden, he’s never had to question his place in the grand scheme of things: the Serpent of Knowledge, demon, pest, menace, and personal adversary to — and beloved of — the angel Aziraphale. Crowley never knew that love could change its form. Then again, he’s not sure he ever knew what love looked like until he tried an oyster in Rome. 

_ I will not be your instrument of self-destruction, Crowley. _

_ I shall be very upset with you if you try to use me again. _

Even now, centuries later, it burns his sinuses and makes the sides of his throat tighten painfully. He can’t put a finger on why, exactly, or what that physiological reaction’s supposed to be, but it’s like his angel dug into him and yanked something secret out of his head. Anyone would be hurt by that. Anyone would hate it. And then, to have the sheer  _ gall  _ to throw it back in his face, to let him discorporate  _ anyway…! _

(It’s not the same, he knows, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t bleed.)

The steps have changed, and Crowley has to adapt. He adapted to Hell after the fall; he was one of the first ones to do so, and one of the only ones to come out relatively undamaged, physically speaking. He adapted to Earth after some undetermined era in Hell. It’s tempting to just ignore the angel, let  _ him  _ see how it feels to be denied (and Crowley has considered it more than once, despite his decision to create some of his own rules), but the worst possible outcome of that scenario is that his angel  _ stops  _ being his — goes back to being God’s only, or  _ worse,  _ gives himself to another  _ angel.  _ No, Crowley can adapt again. 

Twelve years ago, Aziraphale said he wouldn’t make an arrangement with Crowley, only the third time the angel’s ever actually said no to him and meant it; and two months later, Sir Aziraphale disappeared; Crowley had, originally, hoped it was due to a change of heart, but it clearly wasn’t. Now that he’s finally finished playing his part as the Black Knight and his followers will continue to sow discord on their own, he’s free to seek out his angel and find out what it will take to make the deal. He just doesn’t know how to deal with what he finds.

(For the rest of Crowley’s long life, he will never look back on this night fondly, but he will also never forget.)

The Stranger lives in the outskirts of Constantinople, which is a  _ really  _ long, uncomfortable, itchy journey from Wessex, even with a detour through the spacetime-denying tunnels of Hell, and Crowley is not pleased to make it. The people who know  _ of _ the Stranger — none of them actually  _ know _ him — caution against trying to talk to him. He’s not dangerous, they say; at least, he doesn’t seem to be; but he almost never comes out, he looks half-mad all the time, and when he does bother to speak, it’s practically gibberish. He doesn’t  _ want  _ visitors, they say. It’s better to give him the space he’s asked for by not asking for anything. Even food.

Crowley barges in anyway, takes one look around, and carefully does not burn the place down.

Of course Crowley knows that people are, or were, dying here. Neither angels nor demons can get sick, so he’s not worried about any plague. But it’s not Aziraphale’s job to save them, or to destroy himself in the process. He’s not allowed to be destroyed, because he’s not his own, he’s Crowley’s, and for Satan’s sake, he’s technically the Almighty’s, too, no matter how much it burns to admit. No spirit-rending. That’s a new rule. It should have been a known fact already. “Aziraphale, why are you here?”

The angel starts, apparently not having noticed Crowley’s loud entrance. He really does look manic, eyes wide and bright, unsettling blue, no hint of his Earthly brown anywhere to be seen. His fingers, ink-stained and bleeding from something Crowley’s not sure he wants to ask about, flit from sigil to sigil on the paper in front of him — not that Crowley wants to look at it too closely. He doesn’t want to look at any of it too closely. This is the kind of work that either leads to the depths of chaotic madness, or comes from it. Just skimming the pages miracled to the wall by the door made Crowley’s head spin. Is this how Aziraphale looked after working with Heaven to try to solve the Nephilim problem? Is this the kind of array they used to hold the Valley together, its own little pocket world inside the larger one during the flood? 

“Oh. You again,” Aziraphale mutters, looking over the low table, shifting on his knees. How long has he been kneeling there? He shifts the papers as if to find one in particular, but they’re all so complex and coded that they might as well be a child’s drawings. “That’s six now. Crowley, Crowley-”

“Yes, I know my name, I chose it myself,” he says sourly, forcing himself into the dwelling. It feels  _ wrong  _ to be here; even the air tastes bitter. “What are you doing, holed up here with — is this an  _ inverted malice array?  _ Are you  _ looking  _ for a way to fall, angel? You don’t just…”

_ God made up a ridiculous game,  _ he thinks as he strides forward to pull Aziraphale away from the notes, by force if necessary,  _ and clearly it calls for at least one idiot angel piece. _

He tastes grit and feels reality slip sideways, until his hand clamps over Aziraphale’s wrist and everything  _ stops.  _ They both blink at each other, surprised for different reasons, and then Aziraphale asks, “Are you  _ really  _ here?”

“As far as I know,” he replies. His angel looks  _ terrible.  _ “What is all this?”

“Notes. On the plague. Variations, dispersal rates, what kinds of angelic miracles and human rituals have an area effect on it-”

“No.” Crowley squeezes Aziraphale’s forearm and pulls, intending to force the angel to his feet, but he can be stubborn when he wants to be, so Crowley tries logic instead. “You don’t want to go down that path. One minute it’s  _ oh, but what if I could cure the plague a little,  _ and the next you’re trying to figure out how to kill Pestilence, and  _ that  _ is a fall you can’t walk away from.”

“You’re not here,” the angel decides stubbornly.

He’s not offended, necessarily, but he’d thought his angel would remember how it  _ feels  _ to be touching. Doesn’t Aziraphale feel that strange flutter? The weird connection thing? The skin-spark that doesn’t happen with anyone else? Surely it’s a phenomenon Aziraphale would want to make a  _ study  _ of, and  _ pay attention to,  _ because Crowley’s too important to forget or push aside! Irritated, he tries not to sound huffy when he asks, “What makes you say that?”

“He doesn’t take an interest in me.” He peers out at Crowley, like he’s trying to see between layers of reality, and Crowley feels absolutely naked all of a sudden. It’s disturbing, and embarrassing, and he doesn’t know if he wants to smack Aziraphale, or  _ himself.  _ “Crowley doesn’t care what I do when he’s not involved.”

Aziraphale isn’t even  _ wrong.  _ Their history is one of Crowley showing up and more or less inflicting himself on his angel until he’s had his fill, then going away to make mischief elsewhere. Every time Aziraphale has made overtures, Crowley’s walked away in a snit, baited Aziraphale into fighting, or both. This is one of those things. A whatsit — an opportunity to go in a bigger direction. (Growth. It would be growth in some other sentient species. He can’t think it though. Hell’s policies are clear: demons don’t  _ grow  _ any more than angels do, except to get stronger and better at being bad.) Ah — a shift in dynamic, perspective, the perfect time to  _ adapt.  _ He shakes his head and says, “Let’s pretend I  _ am  _ here. Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“What else am I supposed to  _ do?  _ I’ve been sitting here for years, awaiting  _ orders —  _ it’s, I, I’m not important enough to recall, I’m not good enough — they forgot to assign — nobody’s fault, I’m forgettable, but I can still be useful! I’m not sure if the humans are still dying, but  _ next time…” _

This is what Crowley doesn’t understand about Heaven. It’s what he’s never understood about Heaven, or about God, or about  _ Aziraphale,  _ for that matter. How can they claim to be any better than Hell when they send their emissary to sit on his hands in the middle of an epidemic, order him to stay there for an indeterminate amount of time, and expect him to do nothing? How can God pretend the humans are Her favorites when She treats them worse, in both directions, than angels? Why does She spoil them one moment and kill them off the next? And why doesn’t Aziraphale just throw his hands up and quit? Not that Crowley’s complaining; Aziraphale is  _ his angel,  _ not  _ his entity,  _ things would be  _ different  _ if Aziraphale fell, and he’s put too much effort into this to just  _ let that happen,  _ but Crowley quit before the New Ones were even created. Lucifer saw the shape of things, and was displeased. Crowley fell because he thought Lucifer had the right answers to his endless questions. With  _ this _ questioning mind, why didn’t  _ Aziraphale _ fall?

Aziraphale won’t even consciously admit that his notes amount to trying to override God Herself. He’s still telling himself he’s  _ awaiting orders. _

“There won’t be a next time, stupid,” he says quietly, tugging again. “Come on, let’s get you up. You’ve got a bed — sort of—” He glares at the sad-looking pallet, which realizes in a hurry that it’s really something more befitting an angel in need. “You need to rest.”

He winces at the echoes of an old fight between them. He could choke on all of this, or drown in it. Is this how Aziraphale felt that night, when Crowley practically begged him for discorporation? No wonder he spent the night holding Crowley close. That’s all  _ he  _ wants to do now, watch over his angel until he’s sure he won’t disappear. There’s a knife-edge they’re walking here, a sharp, unsafe thing Crowley doesn’t want to examine too closely lest he fall off either side or slip and split in two. He can’t lose Aziraphale, not to something as stupid as this, not to…

...to self-destructive behaviors. It strikes him, suddenly, that  _ because  _ he’s never taken an interest, he’s only ever seen Aziraphale on the job. What does he get up to when he isn’t Being An Angel? Is  _ this  _ why he won’t indulge Crowley anymore? Well, if that’s the case, it’s obviously Crowley’s duty to put an end to these terrible coping mechanisms. What’s good for the goose, or whatever — filthy hypocrisy is demon territory. Angels don’t get to trespass.

“Please, angel,” he adds. “I’m not above begging. I’m very good at it — and at evoking vicarious shame. Part and parcel of the whole temptation business. Don’t make me embarrass you.”

“You’re...actually here,” the angel says suddenly, blinking the haze out of his eyes. The otherworldly blue recedes; his eyes don’t turn completely brown, but they do settle somewhere between brown and blue-green. It’s an improvement, if you use Aziraphale’s dedication to appearing human as a measuring stick. It’s only a sort of cobwebby afterthought, but Crowley isn’t certain that’s a reliable measurement. “I thought…”

The earlier words slot into place. His angel’s been hallucinating him  _ regularly. _ Five other times, Crowley’s appeared to him, but only been a waking dream. He shouldn’t be alone, and nobody’s noticed, not even blessed  _ Gabriel.  _ Giving up on pulling Aziraphale to his feet, the demon instead drops to his knees and puts his arms around his angel carefully from the side — and then sinks his teeth into Aziraphale’s wonderfully soft shoulder. He can’t help but make a little sound that starts in his chest and catches somewhere between his throat and his hard palate. It feels  _ so good  _ to have this again, to be close like this again, the warmth between them that must be caused by his angel’s Divinity. They’ve gone thousands of years with no contact before, but it’s different now. It’s different because Crowley knows he loves Aziraphale, and it’s more important than ever to preserve his angel and make sure he remembers what they have. It’s different because Aziraphale is different and the rules are different and if Crowley should lose his angel, he won’t know what to do with himself. 

(Unlike God, who was Crowley’s first love, Aziraphale loves him back, even when Crowley displeases him, even when he doesn’t like Crowley at all.)

“I  _ am  _ here,” he murmurs into his angel’s neck, “and I’m going to irritate you until you take a break, so you might as well just get it over with.”

“I promised. I promised I would say no to him. I practiced. For hundreds of years.  _ No, Crowley,  _ and  _ no, Crawly,  _ and even  _ no, you wicked thing,  _ and I have to learn to say no,” Aziraphale babbles, like Crowley isn’t really there, like they aren’t  _ literally embracing  _ right now. “No. No breaks, not when God-”

“She doesn’t care, angel,” he mutters. It hurts. He can’t help but take it personally, but at the same time, there’s a hot, slick  _ writhing  _ in him that only gets worse the longer he thinks about the implications. It’s  _ not okay.  _ Free will may not be precisely what he fell for, but it was certainly part of the package. As a demon, free will is one of the things Crowley values most, because without free will there is no sin, and without sin Crowley’s out of a job. Yeah, Aziraphale didn’t really have a choice in becoming Crowley’s angel, but...well, the truth is, it’s not like it means anything, functionally speaking, other than that when the time comes for Hell to triumph over Heaven, Aziraphale won’t perish with the rest of his kin, because he’ll belong to Crowley enough to be hidden away as spoils of war. It means that Crowley will protect Aziraphale as best he can, even from himself,  _ especially  _ from Heaven’s machinations. 

The thing is, Crowley loves Aziraphale, and it’s hard to perform. The Perfect Love of the Almighty is demanding, controlling, jealous and exacting and possessive, and Crowley wants to do it right — he’s  _ always  _ wanted to do it right —  _ he’s always —  _ and Aziraphale is his because —  _ because, _ see, if he isn’t then Crowley’s loving him less than God does and Crowley is  _ better than Her  _ and anyway,  _ mine  _ is a word that demons can’t use very often.

_ Mine  _ was how Crowley qualified love when that word only meant fear and pain and abandonment, back when the world was new. It’s how Crowley separates the angel from his creator, because he’s older and he understands more now but he’s still  _ so angry. _

(The rules have changed, and Crowley must adapt. At one point, he might have left already, but it’s  _ his  _ turn to be the hero. It’s  _ his  _ turn to shelter Aziraphale, this curious, awkward creature who may be as self-destructive as he accused Crowley of being.)

It’s a good thing that demons think so quickly, or else he’d be staring at his angel blankly processing all this newoldnew information. It’s also a good thing that demons don’t have to feel guilty about telling half-truths and spinning tales, so Crowley doesn’t even  _ pause _ before replying, “You can say no, Aziraphale. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. It’s just a suggestion. My  _ opinion  _ is that you should take care of yourself, and after you’ve had a good rest, maybe some food, we can revisit your project. Yeah? Doesn’t that sound good? I’m not telling you what to do. Just reminding you that you do have limits.”

Back in Golgotha, Aziraphale said a temptation was just a dark inspiration. Crowley didn’t believe him, but maybe he wasn’t wrong. 

“What’s the point of being here,” the angel asks, his hands coming up to dig into Crowley’s back, “if I can’t do anything to help?”

“You’re not helping anybody driving yourself past your limits,” he replies, trying for gentle. He’s not sure he succeeds, but Aziraphale’s past the point of nuance anyway. “Come on. Please come to bed. If you discorporate now, you’ll never finish.”

This, finally, spurs the angel into action, and it stings that nothing else did, but frankly, Crowley’s not totally sure Aziraphale remembers this isn’t another hallucination. This is the first time Crowley’s gotten to rescue the angel from something he didn’t cause, and he doesn’t want to mess it up. So far it’s a bit tiresome, but if Aziraphale can do it, surely Crowley can.  _ He’s _ been practicing, too; he learned a lot as the Black Knight, including how to protect his followers. He even got himself something of a following among the poor and otherwise ignored people in Arthur’s kingdom — not that he liked being thanked or mistaken for  _ good _ or anything, that was just  _ embarrassing,  _ but it was sort of nice to be in a position of power for a change.

He likes doing it, being the hero, being something more than his design. Maybe it’s the old grandiosity rearing its ugly head, the pride, but demons are supposed to sin. He likes sinning, too. Sometimes it feels good to follow the rules after all. Depends on what the rules are. Depends on why he’s following them. Depends on who he’s following them for, and what the reward at the end is.

Slowly, they make their way to the bed. Aziraphale is trembling. Somehow the short space seems to stretch and time drags as Crowley supports his angel. It could be an area effect of Aziraphale’s dangerous project, and it could be that the demon is impatient and wants to already be in bed together. It’s been a long time, and it doesn’t make sense, but as he gets older, time gets faster. It feels like only yesterday they were sharing a temptation. This world isn’t going to last forever. They need to be in bed together because beds won’t exist forever.

(And, frankly, because Crowley’s been traveling for a while. He expected to be greeted with alcohol and apologetics, not magic and madness. At least when he offers up a piece of himself, Aziraphale accepts — and without sharing anything, it isn’t overwhelming; it’s soft and nice, like being petted from the inside out.)

“You’re here,” Aziraphale says again as they finally,  _ finally,  _ collapse together. This is not the hastily-woven thing the angel only keeps around as decoration; it’s luxurious, and something similar probably won’t be invented by humans for several more centuries. They’ll just have to banish it when they’re done with it. Crowley pulls his angel close and holds him there, not completely sure Aziraphale won’t try to squirm away. “You really came. You’re real. I can  _ feel  _ you, you’re  _ really here. _ Why? There’s nothing for a demon to do here.”

He’s not wrong. There’s enough misery, still, that no demonic push is necessary to make people want to hurt each other. As it is, Crowley’s going to have to come up with a reason for this detour that might last years; he should have been in China already.

_ “You’re _ here,” he points out anyway, winding around his angel for good measure. He thinks he can probably hold him in place like this, especially with their small spark of connection. Aziraphale might, technically, be physically stronger than Crowley, but he only ever shows it when he’s pushed into  _ actually  _ fighting. Otherwise he seems perfectly content to just let Crowley happen to him, like whatever else happens to people who can’t just miracle their lives better. “I’m done playing knight, so I came to play with you. Didn’t think I’d be walking into a — a pit of — you, you really. Dagon would love you.”

“Dagon,” Aziraphale mutters, his mouth so close to Crowley’s ear he can feel the breath all the way down.

“Master of torments. Listen, this stuff would make humans claw their own eyes out if they saw it. I’m a  _ demon  _ and it made me nauseated. Even if you could find a way to...what, ward off Pestilence? Bind him? Kill him? What do you think the consequences would be? If you’re  _ lucky  _ you’ll fall. More likely you’d just be destroyed. God has a plan and it always calls for thousands of dead humans, apparently, what makes you think you’re allowed to change that?”

“I can’t just do  _ nothing!”  _ Aziraphale turns Crowley’s hold on him, forcing them  _ both  _ to hold position, the brown in his irises receding once again. For a moment, the inside-out petting turns painful.

The bed feels unsafe — the whole city does. Crowley could run, for China, for the stars, for Hell, because there’s _nowhere_ _Aziraphale couldn’t find him_ through this connection Crowley forged when he was young and stupid, but he tries for _calm_ when he pats Aziraphale’s shoulder as best he can and says, “You’re only one person-”

“I am not a  _ person,  _ I am an  _ angel,”  _ Aziraphale whispers, his mouth lazy and sluggish enough to fade the consonants, but somehow the Words crash and echo through the demon’s entire body. The angel’s voice gets louder (and clumsier) as his fingers dig into Crowley’s upper arms. Their connection begins to  _ burn. _ “They stuffed me into a human body and sent me on my way, but this isn’t — it  _ hurts!” _

“I know, angel, you’re hurting me right now, I can feel it,” he chokes out through the sensation. It’s dizzying, not physically, but on a different, less tangible plane, where Aziraphale keeps his essence and Crowley meets him with the seed he stole and nurtured and grew into something Else. He could cut off their connection, but he won’t, because he suspects Aziraphale will come back to himself if someone else is in pain. If  _ Crowley  _ is in pain.

Sure enough, the burn turns back into the nice petting feeling, if a bit more raw, and in the wake of the jarring change, the demon fights to keep himself from rubbing his cheek on the angel’s shoulder like a cat as Aziraphale slurs, “I can’t shut off my brain, so I can’t sleep, and all I did day and night was  _ feel people die,  _ and I tried to help as best I could but there’s only so much miraculous intervention you can do before it’s...I  _ know  _ this project can’t go anywhere until I’m given permission, but knowing there’s a  _ way —  _ it made the years go by faster — when I’m researching like this, it’s like sleeping.”

Crowley, who knows a little something about sleep, snorts, ignoring the painful grip. “This is  _ nothing  _ like sleeping.”

“It separates my mind from this body.”

_ My mind, this body.  _ Crowley can’t relate to that kind of disconnect; he is a serpent,  _ and  _ he is a person, and he owns his body as much as he owns his thoughts. He remembers what it’s like, though, to be inside the vast expanse of his angel. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be stuck in a human incorporation. Crowley is too selfish to say this, so instead, he asks, “Do you want me to put you to sleep?”

“Please, I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Will you at least lie with me until you stop shaking?”

Aziraphale  _ looks  _ at him. There’s something in his expression that digs into him. Finally, the angel says, “You always disappear.”

“Not this time,” Crowley denies. “I still owe you, from...after we lost Sodom. Can’t have a demon going around owing angels. Sets a bad example for the hatchlings.” He pats the angel’s shoulder again. “You’re a  _ disaster.  _ It’s bad enough when you discorporate on the job and your humans get spooked; I’m not letting you discorporate when you’re  _ off  _ the job. Besides,  _ you  _ might not like this body, but  _ I  _ do, and demons are selfish. Your next body might be ugly. Might get put together wrong, with five eyes or something. This one’s too pretty to lose if I’m not the one killing you.”

Aziraphale rolls, but only onto his back, and he pulls Crowley with him before relaxing his grip. Good — telling so much of the truth was a gamble. By now, the demon has a fairly good idea how most humans will react to certain things based on tiny observations, microexpressions, even the way they move, but his angel has always been harder to read, maybe  _ because  _ of the disconnect between mind and body. Crowley pushes himself up a bit, trailing fingers along his angel’s chest, and says, “You know, I keep thinking about kissing you.”

It’s not a yes or no question. He wants an in, a way to reach inside his angel and dig out the grit, and kissing is good; it’s safe, it’s pleasant, it isn’t awkward because they both know how to do it now. He doesn’t know how to phrase it in a way that completely excludes the option of passive agreement, but it  _ bothers  _ him that their other kisses might have been...just Aziraphale doing what he thought he had to do. Crowley only passively agrees to things when he’s scared, but Aziraphale doesn’t think of him as a threat — so it’s Heaven, right? They’ve done something to make him like this. And Crowley would rather drown in holy water than be anything like them. It’s why he doesn’t much like Hell, either. They weren’t very creative when they were building it, so they just took Heaven and turned it upside-down. There’s nothing new there, just a dark, damp Heaven that substitutes misery for rapture. 

“You can,” says Aziraphale, looking up at him with a funny expression, “if you like.”

“But what do  _ you  _ like? What do you want?”

“Kiss me. Make it stop,” the angel says, another echo from an era long lost. “I want it to stop hurting.”

He thinks, for a fleeting moment, about killing Aziraphale despite all he’s said. It would be easy. Might get him a reward. It’s what he, Crowley, used to seek out; he still wants it, sometimes. He is a creature who lives to exploit loopholes, who likes to take the easy way out, and when things get too hard, dying is the easiest way out of all. The mindless routine of getting a new body is soothing, and he likes the teasing he gets from the receptionist every time he ends up there, and of course, it’s something intimate he’s shared with his angel since the beginning of the world. Hell is an ugly, joyless place, of course, but nobody gives him too much trouble there as long as he keeps his tongue in his mouth and his eyes on his feet, and even getting punished for serious transgressions can be fun sometimes, if he turns it into a game of wits to filter out the pain. 

(This is a lie. If he says it enough maybe it won’t be.)

But dying would solve none of Aziraphale’s problems, and would probably cause a few more. So he does what he said he would do, leans down, and presses his lips against Aziraphale’s.

It’s nothing like Rome. Something in him will always be bitter about that, anyway — he fucked it up, because  _ of course  _ he did, he always does — so the differences would be good, in another situation. Crowley rests one hand firmly against the angel’s torso, not exactly holding him down, but reminding him not to get up, while the other gives him space to maneuver. His hair, having grown out again since his last reincorporation, spills over one of Crowley’s shoulders and onto Aziraphale’s cheek, another gentle point of contact. He can’t feel it, of course, but he likes knowing that Aziraphale  _ can.  _ His angel’s eyes go a little browner, a little softer, and  _ it’s good.  _

Their lips move together, softly, chastely. Crowley likes the biting, and he’d be all right with more of that from Aziraphale sometime, but he’s never seen the point of the sloppy, tonguey kisses the humans give each other. His angel lets out a quiet sigh and relaxes, one hand sneaking up to tangle in Crowley’s hair and the other falling limp against the bed. Now that Aziraphale’s in a more pliant state, Crowley takes the opportunity to siphon the sadness and some of the anger (there’s  _ so much,  _ enough to suffocate a lesser demon like Shkithra), feeding on it, bolstering his demonic powers with it. The anxiety, he leaves alone; he has enough of his own, and he’s never been able to transform it into anything useful. 

Angels, he remembers, are not supposed to feel anything negative. In fact, they aren’t supposed to feel much of anything at all. This one is broken,  _ defective,  _ and he’s lucky he has Crowley to put him back together. 

(It’s not his fault. He stole the angel  _ after  _ he broke. It’s not like they want him back, is it, else they’d have taken him a long time ago.)

Crowley can feel the moment the change registers in Aziraphale. The hold on his hair gets firmer and the angel brings his other hand up to stroke Crowley’s spine in that slow, intimate way that makes him feel warm and wanting and wanted, and the kiss goes from soft and friendly to  _ Else.  _ The tug at Crowley’s essence is stern — almost insistent — there’s desire, but not desperation, and it pulls a song from Crowley’s diaphragm through his throat and into Aziraphale’s mouth, a soft series of notes he probably ought to be ashamed of, but can’t. 

He would give himself — wants to give himself —  _ will  _ give himself to this strange occult thing if he wants it, because the wanting is proof that it’s more than perfunctory, performative compliance, and because Crowley wants it too, and because the taste of Aziraphale’s desire is clean and gleaming and as perfectly ordered as the remote celestial bodies and systems Crowley helped put in place. Gleaming, but  _ dark —  _ Aziraphale really is like space, like the universe itself, and Crowley loses himself in the cobalt in his mouth, the flavors of  _ being known  _ by something as vast and expansive and lovely as this angel.

He falls into it, into himself, into an embrace that is as metaphysical as it is physical. Aziraphale’s arms surround his skinny, knobbly form, and Aziraphale’s soul surrounds his skinny, knobbly essence, and he looks into the void and fire and bright corridors of love, and surrenders. This is the knowledge he was missing before, what he never would have learned had Aziraphale kept indulging him: the angel’s love is not his to take, but to receive, and that makes all the difference—

There is nothing to escape from if he’s not trying to steal anything.

Their lips, the first and last point of contact, slide apart, and Aziraphale dots the edge of Crowley’s jaw with smaller, lighter kisses, punctuating the silent conversation. There is so much to say, and none of it can be spoken in times of intimacy for fear of an empathic echo in Aziraphale’s Sphere, but they have this.

“Angel,” he murmurs, mouth falling open as Aziraphale nips at his earlobe.  _ Satan,  _ it’s like a tiny fire. Is this how it feels when he nibbles his angel? Or is he just weird and sensitive? He wants to move, to turn over, to surrender further. He wants to never move again. He wants to run, but he can’t fathom tearing himself out of the angel’s grasp, those firm hands roaming his back and hips like Aziraphale can’t get enough contact. He’s going to hate himself if this backfires, and he’ll hate himself even more if he doesn’t ask. “Tell me you understand what’s going on.”

“You’re here.” Another soft nip, this time at Crowley’s neck. Another tiny fire that resonates through him on more than one level. “You came for me. I was a bad friend, but you came for me anyway.”

“Yes, but — fuck, angel,  _ wait.  _ Tell me what’s happening right now.”

“I’m…” Aziraphale retreats, and the sudden loss makes Crowley whimper in frustration. He looks into a face full of guilt.  _ Blessit,  _ that’s not what he meant to do at all. “I’m misreading — I’m sorry, I thought I understood what you were offering.”

Everything feels  _ raw.  _ It hurts to be alone with himself, and it hurts to be alone with Aziraphale. The real curse of being cast out is remembering how it feels to be connected,  _ constantly,  _ with the Host, but unable to access even other demons without significant effort and physical contact. He sighs and drops his head heavily onto Aziraphale’s chest; is he going to mess up everything he touches forever? Is that it? Is that his real demonic gift? The gift of Ruining Good Things?

“You didn’t misread anything, Aziraphale. I wanted you. I wanted to sa— make you feel. Erm. You know. The thing. Less bad. But you, I walked in on something dangerous, angel. Your notes...there’s a fine line, and you’re close to crossing it. I needed to make sure you weren’t, you know, still under. Still out there in whatever forbidden headspace you’ve been living in.”

“I didn’t mean to. I missed you, Crowley. It helped. I thought I’d never see you again,” says the angel, sounding uncommonly fragile, and Crowley looks up in confusion. Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice that it’s more skepticism than anything, because he continues, “I thought you might hate me. I said no to you. Again.”

Crowley puts his nose in Aziraphale’s neck so he doesn’t have to look into that confused, lost face any longer, and because he’s not sure what his own face is doing, but he assumes his new expression is something angry, and the anger is mostly at himself. He’s been so caught up in his own story, so in love with his own existential drama, that he never considered what it would  _ mean,  _ on a large scale, to actively  _ not  _ rebel against Heaven. “We’re big fans of it down in Hell. Saying no. Well, having the choice. Assuming we’re not saying no to our superiors, anyway. Course I’d prefer it if you didn’t, but that’s the whole point of an offer, isn’t it? You’re an  _ angel,  _ you should be telling  _ me  _ this.”

“I’d never done it before. I do what I’m told. Angels do what they’re told. Last time we had a batch of angels who rebelled…”

“Yeah. And I thought it was wrong, didn’t I?”  _ Weather! _ That’s a thing that happens to people who can’t miracle their lives better. Crying, too, which he  _ definitely  _ doesn’t feel like doing. “Big fan of rebelling, me. Always asking questions. Like why’s the alcohol undrinkable? And why  _ can’t _ we lick the walls? You ask questions too, even if you pretend you don’t, and it’s one of the things I like best about you. So...don’t think you can’t. Never think that. I won’t hate you for, for having, for not wanting something, or for telling me to fuck off if you have to, because I’ll have to tell you that sometimes too. I’m a demon and you’re an angel and sometimes you want to thwart something I have to do to survive, and I’ll have to —  _ please.  _ Please don’t put me in with God. I’m not Her. I fell because I’m not like Her.”

He can’t say he doesn’t want to see his angel hurt, because it rarely occurred to him until now, and it’s always been in the context of being  _ better than Heaven.  _ Crowley has never wanted Aziraphale to be okay for his own sake — only for Crowley’s sake, for Crowley’s peace of mind. He doesn’t know how to not be selfish. He doesn’t know if he wants to stop being selfish. Being selfish gets him what he wants, and he wants what he wants, isn’t that the point of wanting? But he does know that empty words, right now, would undo what little progress he’s made.

“That should scare me. It should repulse me,” Aziraphale says, almost conversationally. Crowley feels it ripple through him, with his head on the angel’s chest as it is, and he stays, because he’s not sure he wants to see what’s on Aziraphale’s face. There must be something about the Divine that inherently inspires questions without answers. “But I know who you are. I have known you since Eden. You don’t scare me — you inspire me.”

“You’ve said that before. I don’t know what it means.”

Aziraphale strokes Crowley’s spine. It’s as good as it  _ always  _ is, enough to quiet the strings of what might be offense in a conversation with anybody else. “You have such a soft touch. The humans like you; they accept you into their communities. They respect you, even when you keep yourself separate. You have no reservations about appearing humble if the job demands it. You are good at tempting because you understand how to be soft. I was built to wield a sword, Crowley, but I feel so much love...I want to be soft. I want to be good, by the human metric, not by Heaven’s standards, because I live among humans. You may not have the same reasons for your soft touch, but all the same, you inspire me to try.”

“Then let me inspire you a little more,” Crowley suggests, shoving aside his first response, which is to deny everything and curl into a ball and disappear. He’s an agent of evil. A good one, too! But really, Aziraphale’s acknowledged that, hasn’t he? It’s just that the angel has a bad habit of seeing good in people when it’s not really there. It’s going to get him into trouble someday. Good thing Crowley’s decided it’s his turn to look out for Aziraphale. “I have to make trouble in Eastern Wei for a little while. It would be a shame if someone distracted me while I was there, and the course of human events just...shaped itself, wouldn’t it?”

“It would,” Aziraphale acknowledges. The shift of his hips on the mattress below Crowley signals the release of the last of his tension,  _ finally.  _ It always takes him so long to relax, even when he’s not particularly stressed.

“And you have a blessing to perform-”

“Next month, Gabriel said. A young girl destined for sainthood. They sent me here too early.”

Well this is fortunate. Crowley’s usually not so lucky. He expected to have to make an excuse for  _ years  _ of neglect, not months. This won’t even warrant communication. “It might be nice if you could cut down on your power use by sharing the load with someone who  _ wants to work with you,  _ wouldn’t it?”

“What?”

“Teach me to bless, angel. You already know how to tempt. We’ll practice in China, and when one of us gets like this...the other can help. You said it yourself: better the devil you know, and Satan knows I’ve been on the verge of discorporation from stress a time or two. Same as you, apparently.”

“You came all the way here,” the angel says, bemused, “when you should have gone to China, just to reiterate your proposition?”

“I came here to take an interest in you,” Crowley corrects sharply, still speaking into Aziraphale’s chest so he can  _ stay _ sharp and not be embarrassed instead, “and it’s a good thing I did. It doesn’t have to be a long-term arrangement. Just something to get you out of this, and back on your feet. You’re not healthy. All this research needs to be burned.”

“I suppose, if you promise we can stop…”

“I told you, angel, you’re allowed to say no.  _ I’m _ not in the habit of throwing away the good things in my life once I have them,” he says, not  _ quite  _ managing to keep the spite out of his voice. Aziraphale doesn’t generally pick up on that kind of thing, though, so hopefully it’s gone unnoticed.

Crowley hasn’t ever had anything good to throw away, other than Aziraphale. What will the angel do if Crowley forgets this conversation when it’s no longer convenient? It wouldn’t be the first time. Satan, he’d be just as bad as Heaven. Worse. Now he has to — now he has to  _ commit,  _ and  _ fuck it,  _ this isn’t what he wanted to do today.

Aziraphale kisses the crown of his head gently and murmurs a quiet thanks into his hair. He’s being honest about being willing to stop, but the truth is, he doesn’t think this will be temporary. Theirs is an exhausting job, and what time has proven is that they might theoretically have support from their respective sides, but when it comes down to it, they can only rely on each other. Neither Heaven nor Hell  _ really  _ understand what it’s like to be a field agent, and even other angels and demons leave the long-term stuff to the ones who’ve been there the longest. 

_ You can’t have him,  _ he thinks, and for once, it’s not at all about stealing Aziraphale from God. Well, maybe. It’s just that Crowley isn’t blind: his angel obviously deserves better. She’s not good to Her best angel, and Crowley can’t —  _ won’t —  _ let that be the end of it. He’s going to feed all of Aziraphale’s little desires until rebellion is tattooed on his soul. Not enough to make him fall; just enough to tell the difference between  _ yes _ and  _ all right.  _ It’s Crowley’s turn to stand guard. It’s fine. It’s not weird. It’s properly demonic to protect an angel from Heaven. The power would be enough to turn any demon’s head. It’s fine. He’s not doing anything wrong.

Corruption, not protection. That’s it. Functionally, they’re the same. He gets away with worse all the time. He’ll be  _ fine. _

  
  
  


He wakes, having been lulled to sleep by the magic feel of Aziraphale’s soft strokes down the spine that ought not be humanoid, but stubbornly remains so. None of the notes are anywhere to be found, and his angel seems remarkably composed. Suspiciously so, even.

Rubbing his eyes, Crowley sits up on the bed and asks, “How are you this morning, angel?”

“Perfectly fine,” Aziraphale replies, a small smile on his lips. “Did you sleep well?”

“I, er. You. The work.”

“Yes.” Something dark and ugly passes through the room from the core of Aziraphale, but his smile doesn’t leave. It doesn’t feel pleasant. Crowley wants to bathe. “You happened upon a moment of weakness. Don’t fret, Crowley, you won’t have to see it again.”

No, Crowley supposes, something bitter and pale crawling down his throat, he probably  _ won’t  _ see Aziraphale in a moment of weakness again. He was never supposed to see this in the first place. He would never have known at all, if he hadn’t broken pattern. He has always taken it for granted that he can trust Aziraphale with the intimate pieces of himself, based on history and results, but Aziraphale has clearly hidden a large piece of  _ him _ — and intends to continue. 

Crowley isn’t even sure if his angel can trust him. How can he expect Aziraphale to be sure?


	3. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley being cute + Aziraphale trying not to give him grief about how cute he is.

_ Take an interest,  _ he tells himself. It’s easier said than done. He’s a busy demon, doing the bidding of Hell, and when he has a moment to spare, he wants to spend it on himself. He wants things to be like they were, when he could just show up and prod his angel into doing something fun — but that’s the point. Aziraphale knows what Crowley’s favorite  _ scent-flavors  _ are, but he only knows that Aziraphale likes the written word because he talked to a guy who knows a guy. 

_ Take an interest?  _ Humans have been writing for a while, and Crowley knows how to read, but it’s not in his top ten favorite things to do. It’s tedious, truth be told, and half the time he has to re-read the same thing over and over before it sits properly in his brain. This isn’t something he can do with Aziraphale! This is  _ stupid.  _ He has nothing to offer, nothing to  _ share  _ like the humans do — the humans Aziraphale likes so much. 

The scroll is new, or at least not old, written by some poet or something who got inspired, or perhaps Inspired. Crowley actually isn’t too clear on whose signature he got, but this is most definitely a prophecy scroll, and Aziraphale is probably into that sort of thing. Even though scrolls are sort of becoming old-fashioned. Right? Or will he laugh in Crowley’s face? No, it’ll be worse, Aziraphale will go all  _ polite  _ and pretend he likes it but everyone in the entire city will  _ feel  _ the lie. This was a dumb idea. He should have brought wine—

“If you’re not going to call on me,” says Aziraphale from behind him, “then why are you pacing in front of my home?”

Crowley whirls around and  _ looks.  _ He hasn’t seen Aziraphale in at least a year, maybe five at the most (time does tend to get away from him), and he has to make sure his angel is still intact. He still looks the same, still feels the same, still smells strongly of angel hastily covered up with some kind of scented oil. Relief overwhelms Crowley, warm and enveloping. His angel is  _ here.  _

“I was just trying to find you. Knew you weren’t home,” he lies. Aziraphale’s long-term wards feel almost identical to Aziraphale himself unless he’s actively following the threads of Aziraphale’s power. It’s only side-by-side that Crowley can tell the difference. He shifts, feeling awkward, and wishes he had real shoes; covering his feet with his own scales is a fun party trick, but it feels weird in soft dirt. Maybe one of these days he’ll remember to find someone who can fit him without screaming.

They’re up north again. Crowley can’t usually keep his stops straight, and this is only a stop, not even a real village. It might not have a name. What Aziraphale is doing here, only he and Heaven know, but it’s mostly just sheep in the place. Sheep, a few people, and one angel who seems to be living in a house made entirely of stones. Crowley sticks out his tongue as covertly as possible and winces; the taste of miracle is overpowering. Aziraphale clearly put this place together himself. 

“Come in,” says the angel pleasantly. He pushes past Crowley, who follows without complaint. It’s fine. It’s all fine. Just because they haven’t really done social-calls-for-no-reason  _ before  _ doesn’t mean they can’t start doing them  _ now.  _ It isn’t like his angel hasn’t tried, so it’s just Crowley giving in, and he can blame it on temptation or...is it even something they have to justify? Nobody really cares what they get up to as long as the work gets done, their superiors have made that remarkably clear.

He’s sweating. Stupid. There’s something wrong with his incorporation. His feet feel like they’re repelling the floor a little, and he isn’t sure what to do with his hands. Oh,  _ Satan,  _ he’s been spending all this time worrying about taking an interest in Aziraphale, but he’s forgotten to be interesting. What if he says something ridiculous? What if Aziraphale gets more invested in the scroll and forgets Crowley’s even  _ there?  _ Things were so much easier before, when he could just show up and have his fill of his angel and then go off when he was done.

...but he’s not an angel, he’s a  _ demon.  _ He has to have  _ some  _ standards. If Heaven does that to Aziraphale, it’s not proper demonic behavior. Or something. He can’t completely remember why he made this decision, but he remembers the part where he wanted to tell God where She can shove it and just  _ take care  _ of Aziraphale… Right. The whole obedience thing, and Aziraphale not believing he was real because Crowley had never  _ taken an interest  _ before. It’s all coming back.

(Doing things that are good — maybe even Good — is  _ hard.  _ It’s like his brain isn’t built to process the information. But he thinks he’s getting better at it.)

The house is as bizarre inside as it is outside, rough stones and miraculously- _ clean  _ dirt held together by sheer force of will, the floor dominated by blankets and some kind of straw matting. It looks more like a cave den than a home, but there are a couple of...sitting tools? They aren’t chairs, but they ought to be sat on. Probably.

“Take a seat,” Aziraphale says, gesturing to the (chairs, they’re just going to be chairs, Crowley decides, so suddenly, they are).

“I...first take this.” Crowley grabs the scroll from his bag and thrusts it inelegantly at his angel, not entirely able to look upon him directly. “It’s a prophecy. Or some prophecies. Not sure.”

“You got me a present? Oh, Crowley —  _ Crowley,  _ how kind you are,” says Aziraphale, delighted, the corners of his mouth pulling up into his cheeks adorably as he cradles the scroll in his broad palms.

“Not,” he snaps, looking around for eavesdroppers just in case. He hates it when his angel says things like that. It’s so  _ humiliating.  _ Crowey is a demon, blessit, and a good one, not some silly soft thing!

“My mistake. You are very wicked. A foul fiend,” Aziraphale amends, and it’s hardly better, but at least the  _ words  _ are flattering. Crowley has been Aziraphale’s foul fiend since the beginning, anyway, so it doesn’t matter that the angel doesn’t mean it right  _ now,  _ because he’s meant it enough in the past that he’ll mean it again in the future.

(He is  _ not  _ a silly soft thing.)

“It’s not even a present,” he grumps, making no move to take back the scroll. Instead, he throws himself over a chair in what passes for sitting for humanoid serpents. “I’m only passing it on. Wasn’t my idea, and I don’t care.”

“Well. Thank you for not caring. I shall take good care of it. Please do pass along my regards to-”

“It  _ was  _ me, my idea,” Crowley interjects, because saying it wasn’t was a stupid decision. Aziraphale liked it, so taking credit for it will work. “I lied before. I. Demons don’t give presents. Especially to angels.”

The angel comes to the chair next to him, sits carefully, and answers, “I know that. Thank you for telling me.”

Aziraphale’s hand on Crowley’s knee feels like all the unsaid things strung between them, and it would be so easy to unspool if only he could interlock their fingers, but Crowley can’t move his hand.  _ Can’t.  _ He’s not  _ smart  _ like Aziraphale, but he’s not stupid, and he knows that his angel’s thanking him for more than the words — for the act of goodwill, for the trust, for the admission, for... _ all of this,  _ and it’s too much. It isn’t that he doesn’t want this. It  _ isn’t.  _ It’s just that Crowley is a demon. He has a function, same as Aziraphale, and they are both slow to adapt, and when there’s no way to justify something good — no way to spin it to be bad — it feels all wrong. Naked, raw, bleeding, transparent. Crowley can’t move. If he turned his hand over and took Aziraphale’s, he might never let go, and if he tried to get up, he might run and never look back.

“Don’t thank me, angel,” he manages, and he doesn’t even make any weird noises. Thank  _ Satan  _ for the dark glasses. They usually manage to hide the way his eyes go wide when he feels helpless like this.

“No, I don’t suppose I should,” Aziraphale replies softly.

He doesn’t move his hand.

Crowley doesn’t tell him to.


	4. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: implied gaslighting, our favorite angel and demon doing their level best to pretend the other has it worse so their problem doesn't need to be addressed right now, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

At first, he doesn’t notice. It’s been normal to go decades, sometimes a century or two, without even catching a glimpse of his adversary; they go all over the world, especially Aziraphale, who tends to accept delegated assignments from other Principalities even when he shouldn’t, or doesn’t have time, or has to travel halfway across the blessed world just to reach the right region. They can both take shortcuts, if they need to, but it’s generally frowned-upon, so when they travel — if they’re not traveling together — they miss each other, in the basic sense of the word.

But when Aziraphale fails to show up to their designated meeting, to compare notes about the Portuguese problem along the southern African coast — if it’s Heaven, they can probably do something about it and play it up to both sides, but if it’s a purely human thing, neither of them are allowed to do any miraculous intervention — Crowley begins to suspect that it might not just be a matter of missing each other.

He can keep it all straight in his head now, the wanting and the saving and the trying to be the right kind of good for Aziraphale. It’s all slotted neatly into place, memories and all, organized just like everything else. It helps that his angel doesn’t need someone Good in his life, just regular little-g good, and that’s not hard anymore. It’s neat, actually, to be impressive in a way that no other demons are, even if he can’t brag about it Downstairs.

So. Aziraphale, as the only living entity in the know, should  _ be around  _ to  _ be impressed.  _ Rude, is what he is.

In the end, Crowley can’t do anything in Africa, and he doesn’t hear from his angel again until he gets a note asking to meet at the Globe Theatre. It’s not surprising that they’ve both been stationed in the same country; Heaven and Hell have an unsettling tendency to have similar ideas, like they’re communicating or something, but that would be stupid. What other angel and demon would be dumb enough to strike the kind of agreement that Crowley and Aziraphale have? 

(Of course,  _ Hamlet  _ turns out to be terrible, because Aziraphale has terrible taste, so the angel stutters his way through a tediously superficial conversation and Crowley plays the sleaze as best he can, before leaving early to get a room where they can actually have their conversation.)

It’s funny: there are certain roles they  _ have  _ to play. If anyone should be watching, if anyone should question the witnesses, they would report a quarrel between adversaries and an angel denying friendship. Crowley is somewhat known in the circles of Hell for being an absolute  _ pest,  _ so it’s not at all out of character for him to bother someone who could strike him down where he stands, and Aziraphale isn’t the type to perform a smiting in broad view of humans when it’s entirely out of fashion to do it. But  _ afterward,  _ when their roles have been played and nobody  _ needs  _ to be watching…

He wants to collapse into his angel’s arms, but he doesn’t do it. Ever since that first night in Turkey, there’s been a tension between them, a distance that didn’t exist until suddenly it did. Crowley knows it’s his fault; he’ll poke and prod and tease, but there’s a little warning bell in his brain that won’t stop ringing,  _ careful, careful, careful.  _ What if Aziraphale says yes when he doesn’t mean it? And of course it’s stupid, Crowley  _ knows  _ it’s stupid, Aziraphale isn’t a child and he’s been clear about his own mind, and over the recent centuries he’s gotten better at saying no. Delights in it, even, another indulgence like food and wine. But Crowley worries anyway, because that’s what he does. He can’t help it. If he’s not angry, he’s anxious, because he overthinks  _ every-blessed-thing. _

“It’s been ages,” Crowley says, the words pulled from somewhere in his chest and collapsing in the air between them. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, or for that matter, with the rest of his body. He wants to wind himself around his angel. There’s a hard, sharp edge in his angel’s aura that makes him think that’s a bad idea.

“Yes, I was...well, I spent a decade in Heaven,” Aziraphale replies hesitantly. He fiddles with his hands, looking nervous now that they’re alone.  _ No witnesses,  _ Crowley thinks. No one to tell them what to do. “Does Hell have, er, permanent consequences?”

“What.”

“For bad actions. Are there permanent options when your superiors choose your consequences?”

Crowley twists his mouth irritably. A consequence is a natural outcome of an action — something chosen deliberately by a third party is not a consequence, it is a  _ punishment.  _ And, “No, not really. Hell can’t afford to lose numbers. Lesser demons just aren’t as sturdy, or as committed, for that matter. They’d never let us believe we could escape punishment so easily, anyway; can’t be tortured if you don’t exist. Don’t tell me Heaven  _ does.” _

“They don’t,” he says, still fiddling. “They shouldn’t. I was tasked with finding a permanent solution that doesn’t involve falling. Oh, Crowley, they wanted me to give them the means to destroy me-”

_ “You?  _ Angel, you don’t deserve-”

“But I do,” Aziraphale corrects. “I just agreed to tempt that clan leader for you. I’ve covered for you before. Nobody knows yet, but I’m certain Michael suspects, even if Gabriel doesn’t. We must be  _ especially  _ careful going forward, my dear, because if I am caught, you will be caught too. They’ll destroy us both — you won’t have friends on either side, and neither will I. I told Heaven that only Hellfire will truly kill an angel, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t some rituals that will effectively hold us in stasis forever, and I’m not the only angel who knows how to  _ read.  _ I had to be honest.”

Fuck it.

Crowley rushes forward and drapes his arms over Aziraphale’s shoulders, a loose, serpentine slouch that is the least demanding embrace he knows how to do. It isn’t fair. None of this is fair, really. The truth is, as bad as Heaven is for Aziraphale, falling would be  _ worse.  _ It’s Hell; nobody loves there. It’s all politicking and sleaze and knowing how to avoid danger, and the higher-ups treat the little people, like Crowley, like tools to be used. The truth is, Crowley would be a lot less angry at God if Satan had kept his promise to establish an equal society of demons. Being unforgivable might not be so bad if Hell weren’t so bad, but it is. Aziraphale would make a piss-poor demon. 

Not that he’d be bad at the  _ job —  _ he’s proved himself in that department — but he’s not suited to Hell. And Crowley can’t ascend, which means they’ll be stuck like this, forever meeting in secret, trading favors to say  _ I love you  _ and pretending not to know each other, or at least not to like each other. When Crowley’s had a bad time, all he wants is Aziraphale’s arms around him, but usually by the time they can arrange something safely, he’s already worked through it. If he can do  _ anything  _ for his angel now…

“We need a plan,” he says, laying his cheek on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He noses at Aziraphale’s neck, taking in the scent of sweat and perfume and the strange angelic zing that the perfumes and oils never  _ quite  _ manage to cover. “Some kind of safety net.”

For a moment, it seems like the angel will just stand there like a ripped-up doll in Crowley’s arms, saying and doing nothing, but eventually, he moves his own arms to rest loosely around Crowley’s waist. They’re heavy and limp, like Aziraphale is tired; he shouldn’t be, but Crowley knows that  _ should  _ doesn’t always apply to their incorporations. Like extreme temperatures and sharp objects, mental exhaustion is one of those Earthly things that will make a body react poorly. The angel takes a long breath in through his nose, with his face pressed against the side of Crowley’s head, and quietly answers, “I don’t know that there’s anything we can do. Just keep going, with a smile on our faces. We’re both good at that. And we’ll have to be careful with each other otherwise, unless you’d rather not see me any-”

“Don’t be an idiot. I want to see you as much as you want to see me,” he interrupts, which is somewhat misleading, but only in a good way. It’s funny how much has changed in just a few centuries. Paradigm shifts will do that, he supposes. Bit of a hard swallow, but maybe this is all for the best. Ever since their diversion in China, after that unsettling mess in Turkey, he’s learned that love can feel good. It doesn’t have to burn and it doesn’t have to be jealous. Aziraphale is allowed to be his own person, and can still be Crowley’s beloved angel, and that means a lot less energy wasted. God probably gets  _ tetchy  _ because being such a giant control freak is  _ exhausting. _

Aziraphale’s voice is tiny. “But what if I want to see you all the time?”

_ (Thanks, angel, _ Crowley thinks, agitated for reasons he doesn’t want to examine too closely,  _ for the stupid starburst in my chest.) _

“You know you’d get sick of me. I sleep too much and I can’t stand sitting around watching people  _ read.  _ Really, what we have now is-”

“Just kiss me, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs, cutting through Crowley’s chatter in a way he’s only managed to master in the past century. “I have thought of nothing but you since I got back.”

A better person would be flattered, but Crowley isn’t. He still, for all that he’s  _ trying  _ to love the way humans do, expects to be at the forefront of Aziraphale’s mind, so it doesn’t occur to him to question how or why or whether it’s appropriate. He just smiles, steps closer, tightens his grip, and does as commanded.

Unlike their usual routine, Aziraphale does not take time to gather his courage; he leaves passivity behind almost immediately, nips sharply at Crowley’s lower lip, backs him into the wall with a series of kisses so quick and precise that the demon hardly cares that Aziraphale’s got his hands behind him, trapped between his lower back and the wall. He doesn’t care when Aziraphale’s left hand goes behind his neck, and Aziraphale’s right hand runs down his hip and comes to a stall at the back of Crowley’s left thigh — or, well, he  _ does  _ care, inasmuch as he appreciates the sensation, and especially the fact that he doesn’t have to make the decisions here. If his angel’s taking what he wants, then Crowley doesn’t have to second-guess himself—

Probably.

“Tell me what you want,” Crowley breathes. Just to be  _ sure. _ Just to  _ hear it,  _ from Aziraphale’s lips, in Aziraphale’s own words. If Crowley hasn’t said what  _ he  _ wants, Aziraphale can’t just go along with it.

The hand on the back of his thigh squeezes painfully,  _ deliciously,  _ and Crowley’s mouth drops open in a silent gesture of awe as Aziraphale’s other hand tightens around a clump of hair at the nape of Crowley’s neck. It’s reminiscent of the sweet protection in Turkey, and the desperate way they clung to each other after the Almighty’s sadistic deluge,  _ and  _ of the time Aziraphale broke Crowley’s arm, and by any existent metric that shouldn’t add up to love, but it does anyway. He doesn’t feel threatened, taken in hand like this — it’s safe and thrilling and Aziraphale says, “I  _ shouldn’t.” _

“Oh,” breathes  _ the Serpent of Eden,  _ the  _ original tempter,  _ hardly able to contain himself at the thought of his angel wanting something he  _ shouldn’t,  _ “please don’t tease me so.”

He could sip it out of his angel, if he wanted. It will be sweeter to hear it spoken, a voluntary admission of guilt. Delicious indulgence, at least, if not outright  _ sin. _

If his arms weren’t trapped behind him, he would clutch Aziraphale to him, maybe dig in his nails to make his point. He still could; he’s not bound, merely held in place; but his angel wants him like this, and Crowley wants to surrender, because  _ he is not an angel.  _ He is not of Heaven, and he won’t let them appear here. The sentiment is only undemonic to the uninitiated; anything in opposition to Heaven is by nature demonic, including submission —  _ to the unappreciated,  _ to the most lowly, wretched, broken agent. He wants to spoil his angel to wholeness. 

“I want to  _ consume  _ you,” Aziraphale tells him, lips brushing the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and then he  _ bites down,  _ like Crowley always does, like Crowley’s always hoped he would mimic. It’s bliss, and not just because it’s biting, but because it’s a gift. It’s a thing Crowley wanted, and Aziraphale gave it to him, and he shudders. His calves are probably scaling by now, but if his nature were a real deterrent, they wouldn’t have come this far. “I want you, forever. I want you safe—” Aziraphale kisses him hard and pulls away, meeting his eyes. Aziraphale’s own eyes aren’t even pretending to be human, all unsettling blue, an eerie glow confirming the truth of his confession. “—hidden —  _ mine.” _

“Yours,” Crowley echoes dumbly. A toy soldier and a deimatic serpent, belonging to each other. His scary-looking coils can protect Aziraphale’s vulnerable spots and the angel’s tin sword can handle the rest.

What a stupid, beautiful picture of something they’ll never have.

“Never to be found by Heaven or by Hell. My own flower, which I tend to and shelter. Oh,  _ Crowley.  _ If you were to be taken from me…”

Aziraphale closes his eyes and leans forward, resting his forehead on the side of Crowley’s neck, idly stroking Crowley’s hair. His right hand leaves Crowley’s thigh and instead circles up to his hip, and Aziraphale thumbs small shapes there — a sudden shift in intensity. 

(Or maybe not. Despite the gentleness, Crowley’s nerves are still a chorus conducted by Aziraphale’s every little movement, and he only doesn’t laugh at the sentiment of Aziraphale  _ losing  _ him because something in the back of his mind  _ insists  _ that he think on it first.)

“May I move my hands?” 

It sounds so stupid once he says it aloud. Of course he may. Nobody ever said he couldn’t. But it seems right somehow, and maybe he likes the idea of knowing the steps ahead of time. History has shown that his bouts of improv tend to make things worse, not better. He gets people killed. Or himself. Or both.

“Oh, I...yes, I’m sorry. Please, feel free.”

Crowley brings both of his hands up immediately, splaying his fingers out along the angel’s jaw and resting his thumbs on his lower lip. Aziraphale is soft everywhere, in all the right places and in all the places plenty of people would consider the wrong ones. Soft skin, soft limbs, soft curves — soft heart, maybe. He’s broken. It’s always been fascinating, at first disgusting and then eventually enchanting, but Crowley has a sudden thought—

_ What if Aziraphale were no longer broken? _

What if the other angels fixed him and turned him wrong? What if they trapped him with a ritual and stole back the pieces of him that Crowley has nurtured and treasured and they polished him up and removed all the things that make him different? There  _ is  _ a way to lose each other that would be even worse than permanent erasure. A different kind of erasure where the essence lives on, unrecognizable, unreachable.

“I won’t let it happen,” he promises. It’s a silly, pointless promise that he can’t keep, but he has to say it anyway, because he wishes it were in his power. Demons, these days, know want better than humans do, and Crowley wants this more than anything any human has ever wanted  _ anything.  _ He would rend the skies if it would help, tear down his own constellations. Or build new ones. Or something,  _ anything. _

Aziraphale kisses his thumbs and doesn’t respond. That’s probably for the best.


	5. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: these two continuing to minimize their problems, more hints of religious abuse, DYSPHORIA, brief mentions of suicide (as much as there can be suicide in angels/demons).

The crepes are probably good, but here in a set of rooms Aziraphale either paid for or convinced someone he paid for (the lying hypocrite, this operation wasn’t just about food), they taste like dust in Crowley’s mouth. For once, that’s not due to God’s curse — the humans are so  _ good  _ at finding new ways to put foods together, and these crepes have got milk and sugar in the recipe, so that’s practically a guarantee these days that he’ll get to enjoy a nice meal and then have a nice nap after — but the situation at hand.

Crowley almost lost Aziraphale to a human execution. A thousand years ago he might have let it happen, just to give his angel a taste of his own medicine, but things are different now. 

Watching Aziraphale eat is practically voyeurism, which Crowley tends to condemn  _ in general ( _ because he doesn’t like anybody in the Lust department) but wholeheartedly embraces on these happy occasions. All of the sweet little noises of appreciation make him feel things, good things, and there is something to be said for drawing out a scene the way Aziraphale does. He takes his time and savors every bite, and Crowley pictures himself on the table, his neck offered up for nibbles, his wrists available for longer sucking, his mouth a substitute for the cloths Aziraphale likes to use to daintily dab at his lips when he imagines they might be messy (they never are). Crowley knows every corresponding meaning to the dining experience; a certain wiggle means surprised delight, a light, breathy, satisfied moan means a craving has been met, and so forth down an extensive list. 

None of that is happening now. The crepes taste like ash and Aziraphale looks sad — at least, as sad as an angel can look. It’s more of a feeling than an expression, but there’s something distinctly  _ droopy  _ about his aura. Crowley only ever sees him sad when he thinks nobody’s looking —  _ unangelic feelings,  _ it seems, are more important to hide than  _ unangelic behavior,  _ or maybe Aziraphale thinks he’s sparing Crowley. 

It tastes bitter.

“I hope these were  _ worth it,”  _ he says flatly, unable to force anything (even sarcasm) into his voice. Aziraphale’s insubstantial expression changes into something more positive, but they’ve both lived too long to fool each other like that. It’s a little insulting. 

“I thought they’d be sweeter,” Aziraphale replies, in the tone of someone who is talking about something else entirely.

Because Aziraphale isn’t here for food. He’s here on business. Did he really think he could hide it? Did he think he could buy Crowley off with some company and substandard conversation? That excuse was flimsy as anything, and if Crowley asked Aziraphale for an accounting of all the so-called “frivolous miracles” that got him put on notice, he’s sure the angel would struggle to come up with some. The idiot  _ commissions his clothing,  _ for Satan’s sake, and his favorite hobbies are all magic-free human things. 

He frowns and gestures around the austere living quarters, accidentally vanishing the table in the process so that there’s nothing but air between their knees as they sit across from each other. “Why are you really here, angel? It isn’t the food, else you’d not be  _ staying  _ here. And you want me to ask, or you wouldn’t have brought me here.”

“I thought you deserved better than a lie after all. You know,” says the angel slowly, looking at him across the space where the table was just a moment ago, “I didn’t expect to see you today.”

_ “Really,”  _ he drawls, not exactly feigning surprise, but something adjacent to that. “You got yourself all prettied up just for the Committee? Or was it more  _ personal?  _ Wanted to flash your feathers at Ro-”

“I was  _ asked  _ to come here by a colleague,” the angel admits with a flush. 

“Colleague?”

“He...er. You see. One of ours posed as a schoolteacher several years ago. Got a bit...enthusiastic in the  _ discipline  _ department, and when they finally recalled her, we. Well, anyway, there was a trial by her peers, and it was determined that she  _ may  _ have done some harm to humans, so consequences were applied and Heaven kept an eye on her former charges.”

Crowley knows by now not to remind Aziraphale that they’re  _ punishments,  _ not  _ consequences... _ or for that matter, to ask about what happened. Aziraphale will happily talk to him about things he doesn’t think twice about, and seems to think that all the  _ consequences  _ visited upon him are justified, but he remains tight-lipped about Heaven’s protocols. In Hell, she’d have been commended, probably, but if she’d been caught doing Good, she’d have been tortured and sent on her way, easy as you please. Torture is hardly a picnic, but at least it’s predictable. Demons aren’t very creative, and it’s only happened to Crowley a couple of times. Aziraphale knows this, and he knows that Crowley  _ abhors  _ tedium when it’s happening to him, so Heaven’s protocols are probably absolutely  _ mind-numbing. _

Instead of going down a path that will get him nowhere, he says, “That doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

“Ah. Yes. One of her former charges is a minor political figure, and I was asked to...well, really, my colleague was in charge of blessing him, in hopes that the damage could be reversed. I  _ told them  _ it was a stupid idea, that humans don’t  _ work  _ like that, but Gabriel insisted my colleague try, and I agreed to come in his place because I’m so much more familiar with humans. I thought perhaps if I just  _ spoke  _ with the man, so I set up here, did some research, and read his work — I don’t recommend — and then — I suppose my colleague didn’t tell Gabriel we’d made the switch, so he thought I was here for some silly reason, and I couldn’t bring myself to just  _ tattle  _ on my colleague; he  _ must  _ have had a reason for keeping quiet-”

“Yeah, to make your life hard,” Crowley mutters.

“Don’t be silly. We’re angels, we don’t go in for petty things like that,” says Aziraphale, like the biggest hypocrite who ever lived. This is an angel who will drink an entire bottle of wine and not share just because Crowley stole a piece off the board, like he doesn’t do that every time they play. “Anyhow, that’s where the reprimand came from. I spent quite a few miracles setting myself up here. They never used to care...no matter. The man is not salvageable. Your side can’t take credit for him, but I imagine the Lust department will enjoy chastising him.”

“So why didn’t you go home? You didn’t have to go out drawing attention to yourself. You must have established some kind of reputation. You put yourself in danger. You could have  _ died.”  _ Crowley rolls his eyes and waves a hand. “Yes, I know,  _ been inconveniently discorporated,  _ but you could have lost your form. For who knows how long.”

“It’s just a body,” Aziraphale says, a frown creeping between his eyebrows and tugging at his cheeks. 

“Yeah, but it’s y-” Crowley pauses and takes a careful look at Aziraphale, who carefully looks elsewhere. “Aw, for Hell’s sake, angel,  _ that’s  _ why you let them get you? What’s happened to it? Is it breaking down? Malfunctioning?”

“I just,” says the angel. He stops. Flutters his hands, folds them against his belly. He won’t look at Crowley. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, and I’ll be glad if you never do. This  _ isn’t  _ my body, it’s just the one I’m in. No, that’s wrong — I can’t — I don’t know how to say this. I do what I can; I take good care of this body, I soften it up with food, and I make sure it wears the right kind of fabrics, because that helps. But there are only so many modifications you can make to an existing form. It isn’t mine, it isn’t  _ me,  _ and sometimes I...panic, at the thought of being stuck in here forever. I was preparing to leave, I  _ was,  _ and suddenly I. Er, I might have remembered something from the war in Heaven, and I was struck by the realization that I have  _ no idea  _ whether we’ll be forced to wear incorporations during the End Times. What if this is it? What if this is — I couldn’t — I couldn’t.”

“So your solution,” he says, uncomprehending, “was to have the humans execute you? Don’t you think the Almighty would still consider that suicide?”

“If I can’t die, is it suicide, or is it just self-care?”

“It’s  _ dangerous,  _ Aziraphale!” He surges forward to rest on his knees in front of the angel, taking one of Aziraphale’s hands between both of his. He brings those stupid, lovely fingers to his lips and keeps them there, speaking directly into his angel’s skin, hoping it might settle in better this way. “D’you really think they’d send you back down to me if they realized why you’d gotten killed? This isn’t like the spats you and I used to have, where discorporation was just a job hazard. Heaven as a whole might treat you like a — like a thing they can joke about, but  _ Gabriel’s _ not blind, and he cares what happens to you. More or less.”

“I know.  _ I know.”  _ Aziraphale rests his free hand on the crown of Crowley’s head, bowed over Aziraphale’s lap, and Crowley tries not to think of how this would look to anyone else. He quivers when the angel drags his fingertips in circles across his scalp. “As soon as I was captured, I regretted it. Even tried to argue with the executioner, and you know how bad my French is! I didn’t want to die, I just,  _ oh,  _ I told you that I don’t expect or want you to understand, and I  _ am  _ glad it didn’t happen. I’m glad you came, Crowley. The minute I heard your voice, I felt...not better, but less ready to claw myself to bits. The whole world got just a little bit brighter. I smiled. I was happy to see you.”

Oh, this is just  _ cruel.  _ Aziraphale always manages to slip these things in when Crowley doesn’t have the luxury of performing irritation. “Well...good.”

“And it wouldn’t have worked. I wasn’t thinking about how my injury manifests in Heaven,” Aziraphale continues, in the tone Crowley has come to recognize as the one the angel uses to convince himself whatever’s happening really is the best thing. “Really, how stupid could I have gotten? Go-”

In one swift, animalistic movement, a strike more reminiscent of snake than human, Crowley darts forward and up, off his knees, onto the angel’s lap, and kisses Aziraphale into silence. He can’t stand it. He hates that there’s nothing he can do, there’s nothing  _ anyone  _ can do: it doesn’t matter that the form Aziraphale currently inhabits is the most perfect form Crowley has ever seen (especially since it’s the perfect form  _ because _ it currently contains Aziraphale). It doesn’t matter that Crowley could, and gladly would, spend years devoted to worshiping every inch of it, just as it doesn’t matter that this form has inspired sonnets and songs and paintings from humans who couldn’t help themselves. No amount of outside admiration can make Aziraphale suddenly feel at home in a body that isn’t his.

Crowley can’t handle listening to the rationalizations any more than he can handle thinking about losing Aziraphale. So he kisses hard enough to deliver a point, resting one hand in Aziraphale’s hair and the other on the side of his face, and makes this silent offering.

_ Use me,  _ he thinks.  _ Take my thoughts from my head and wear them in yours.  _

It wouldn’t be difficult to take this further. All he’d have to do is reach out, give himself to Aziraphale, just a little spark, the way they used to, but things are different now. The  _ rules  _ are different now, in that there  _ are  _ some, and they’re mostly there for safety. Crowley loves Aziraphale, and he won’t be satisfied with one little session. He won’t be satisfied until Aziraphale has possessed him so thoroughly that they’ve forgotten where one ends and the other begins, and he won’t be able to just let go afterward. Aziraphale loves him too, is the thing — this would be  _ so much easier  _ if lack of reciprocity were the problem — and if he did it right, Crowley could probably convince Aziraphale to just take him forever. They might even be able to sell it to Aziraphale’s superiors as a net gain, considering they still think he’s immortal.

_ I’ll never do evil again if you never let me go. _

But Crowley will  _ never again  _ swear allegiance to God, even if he doesn’t particularly care for Hell, and Aziraphale loves Crowley-the-demon, not Crowley-the-plaything, not Crowley-the-docile-pet. If he tied himself into knots trying to force himself into a prettier, more pleasing shape, Aziraphale would hate him. And he  _ hates  _ that he knows this. He hates that he cares. He can’t help either reaction, the care or the hate. No wonder humans are always going on about the agonies of love. It’s enough to make you sick, even when you’re kissing the one you’d die for.

“Next time you feel that way,” he murmurs against the angel’s mouth, “come to me.”

“You can’t fix it,” Aziraphale replies, his lips light and moist.

Maybe he doesn’t understand about the body, but feeling unfixable? Feeling wrong and displaced? He knows a little something about that.  _ All  _ demons do. “No, I can’t. But I  _ can  _ get us very drunk and distract you until it goes quiet, which is better than getting yourself discorporated by angry French people in ugly hats.”

A strangled laugh. “You aren’t wrong. Wily serpent.”

Crowley kisses him again, just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't necessarily condone self-medicating to deal with dysphoria, but as someone who has attempted suicide, and who has self-medicated for various reasons, I do think it's the better option. Sometimes there are no good options. I guess if the copay won't ruin you, try therapy or something? Or a full-on transition if that will fix it? Alive is better than dead whatever you do.


	6. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley being cute again + "You go too fast for me" + a pinch of desperate angel

Crowley leaves his Bentley at a crooked angle outside Aziraphale’s shop, storms through the front door, and finds himself even more irritated at the angel’s  _ complete lack of surprise  _ at seeing him there. He could at least pretend, for Crowley’s sake, couldn’t he?

“Too fast,” he hisses. Aziraphale miracles the door closed and locked — and  _ leaves the room.  _ Granted, he only goes to the back, but it’s dismissive and frustrating and Crowley almost leaves, before he realizes that’s probably exactly the point. Aziraphale is  _ very good  _ at getting people to leave his shop, and Crowley’s not going to let him get in more practice. He trips to catch up with the angel, whose expression does not change.

“Too  _ fast,”  _ he says again. He leans against the doorjamb so he doesn’t fall over. “The Heaven does that mean? I don’t understand you, angel. You tell me someday — someday we’ll do things,  _ real  _ things! Things a blessed  _ human unit  _ would do, with plans and reservations and, and  _ outfits,  _ and then you say  _ I’m  _ the one who goes too fast? I’ve been  _ inside you,  _ Aziraphale-”

“Yes, nearly two thousand years ago, and it scared you so much you discorporated,” the angel snips, completely closed off. Crowley was expecting anger, or defensiveness, or even mockery; he wasn’t expecting  _ this.  _ Aziraphale’s eyes look suspiciously misty, but his voice is solid and unwavering. “It’s always the same thing! Where were you the two decades after our spat last century, Crowley? Discorporated!  _ Again!” _

“I was asleep,” the demon admits sullenly, looking away. He regrets lying about it now, but  _ I got myself discorporated and had to spend time in Hell  _ seemed like a better excuse than  _ our meeting in ‘62 was the only day I was  _ awake  _ that century after we had chocolates at your shop.  _ There wasn’t even a reason to sleep; he just...couldn’t properly wake up. “Wasn’t really in Hell, I was just asleep.”

“Ah, so you lied to me.”

“Well, yeah, course I did,” he scoffs. “You would too.”

“Was the lie to get rid of me, or to get me to do your dirty work, I wonder,” Aziraphale muses lightly, leaning against his desk. The room stretches and springs back into place — Crowley’s heart pounds — it’s so cramped. He could reach Aziraphale from here, but his voice sounds like it’s oceans away. “I spent  _ months  _ planting seeds for the Spiritualist movement, only to find out you could have done it yourself, you were just too lazy.”

He shakes his head wildly. “No, you’ve got it all wrong-”

“Unless you’re lying to me  _ now.  _ It’s hard to say. All I know is that you disappeared for  _ sixty years,  _ but for a note  _ pleading for my help _ in ‘78, after I didn’t give you the means to off yourself as you please, and you disappeared again after we saw each other in ‘41. And now you’re upset that I want to wait and see if you’re still alive in another decade or so before I let you in again?”

Crowley’s angry, and he feels ugly and small and all the things that he’s always been afraid of _being._ Why doesn’t his angel believe in him? It’s not like he’s going to just _accidentally knock the Thermos over_ one day! He’s got a place prepared for it. “I don’t appreciate being treated like a child, Aziraphale. I can take care of myself. You didn’t _have_ to bring me the stupid holy water. You don’t even have to _fraternize_ with me. If I’m so incompetent, why do you even bother with me? I’m sure you’ve got half a dozen angels who’d give anything to be where I am now — _oh, wait,_ you don’t. Unlike me, you haven’t got any friends in the ranks. Can’t imagine why.”

“I love you, Crowley — you  _ must  _ know that I love you,” Aziraphale says with feeling. His face looks pained, an unusually expressive moment that Crowley can’t appreciate with the lump in his throat. “Wholly, specifically, perhaps even blasphemously. I love you in a way that would destroy me, were Heaven or Hell to find out. But I cannot, for the life of me, remember  _ why,  _ and I don’t think I like you very much right now.”

It’s like he’s been dunked in cold water. He knows,  _ of course  _ he knows. Aziraphale has never made it a secret. He wears his love like a badge of honor, but to say it — to acknowledge it, to  _ make it real —  _ there’s a difference between feeling love and doing love. Heaven can’t punish him for feeling it. They probably can’t even tell who it’s for, or if it’s specific. But it’s been spoken now, pushed into consciousness. 

Because Crowley made him.

He steps forward and sinks to his knees, slowly, looking upward. If he could pray, he would. If Aziraphale would allow it, he’d repent. (Not for the things that offend God, just for this.)

“I’m s— I’m.” His tongue can hardly form the words, as un-demonly as they are. He wouldn’t bother at all, except this is  _ his angel,  _ the only person in any dimension worth anything these days. He tries again. “Aziraphale, I’m.  _ Ssssorry,  _ eurgh. I’m sorry. Look at me. I’m on my knees in the middle of the night in a, in, in a blessed  _ Soho bookshop,  _ because I. It’s the same. You don’t have to like me. I don’t like me either sometimes. I do know you lo— I know. I do too. You, you don’t have to  _ like  _ me, but I don’t want you to hate me. So. I can give it back, if you don’t trust me.”

“Damn,” Aziraphale swears softly, joining Crowley on the carpet. He reaches out and gathers him close, and Crowley doesn’t fight it, because he doesn’t want to, even if it makes him feel weird. Aziraphale kisses the side of his face just over his Hellmark. “This is what I was afraid of. I can’t resist you.”

“Cause I’m just so  _ tempting,”  _ Crowley says, trying not to feel hurt. “Blame it on my nature.”

Aziraphale laughs lightly. “Temptation, I can handle. It’s not because you’re a demon, it’s because you’re you. I knew that if I let you drive me home, I’d ask you in, and I’d offer you wine, and I’d spend the rest of the night wishing I could have you here with me in my arms like this. I can’t lose you, Crowley. You must promise me that if the time ever comes that you must use the holy water I gave you, it will  _ not  _ be on yourself, and you’ll come to me straight after.”

His chest feels unbearably hot and stretched, and he’s not sure he could handle it if Aziraphale let go, so he clings to his angel like he hasn’t in centuries.“Right, so you can get in trouble too?”

“My dear,” the angel murmurs into his hair, “if you have to use holy water on another demon, I’ll already be in trouble. We have played a dangerous game, you and I. God hasn’t seen fit to comment on it, but I’m not stupid enough to think our respective superiors will be equally accepting. I would rather have you at my back, if you don’t mind.”

_ Get thee behind me, foul fiend,  _ Crowley thinks inanely, and says nothing. In the face of a confession like that, he doesn’t want to make a joke. He  _ wants  _ to reciprocate, but he can’t; he can barely string together a sentence half the time when he’s trying to be genuine. Maybe he  _ does  _ go too fast…

For Satan’s sake. It doesn’t  _ matter.  _ The whole point of procuring holy water in the first place is that they can’t even be seen together without worrying about getting killed. The speed is irrelevant; they shouldn’t be going anywhere  _ at all. _

“I won’t use it on myself,” he says. “Never planned to. Thought you understood.”

“Sometimes I think I do understand you, and sometimes you do just go  _ too fast.  _ I worry so much that you’ll leave me behind, and I’ll find you dead when I’m still trying to catch up. It’s the last thing I want for you. For  _ us.” _

And it’s funny, because Crowley gets it — he  _ does —  _ but also, he really doesn’t.


	7. Epilogue: Heaven, 2018

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley breaks free.

After millennia of being powerless, it’s good to have power. And he has it here, in Heaven, at the mercy of Aziraphale’s superiors. Gabriel, Uriel, that new one, Sandalphon — and of course  _ Eric  _ is here, Hell couldn’t be bothered to send anyone worth anything. If Crowley weren’t on trial downstairs, it’d be him here, probably. But Crowley, sitting pretty inside the incorporation Aziraphale usually wears, still buzzing from such an intense Inspiration that they literally  _ switched bodies,  _ has power.  _ Finally. _

He cracks his neck, allowing the Hellfire to soothe him, and thinks. He was too anxious to come up with a good plan, but he doesn’t really need one, does he? He knows Aziraphale well enough to play him. And he knows that Heaven thinks he’s a  _ joke,  _ and he knows that Hell—

Wait.

Eric will spread the word. He’ll confirm their fears. Michael will come up and confirm that Crowley can’t die, that he’s  _ immortal,  _ and Aziraphale? Well. Maybe Heaven never knew, but Hell’s suspected for almost two thousand years that Crowley’s strange, awkward,  _ terrifying  _ angel can wield Hellfire. Crowley smiles and breathes, and somewhere inside, a pair of Heavenly shackles breaks open.

(A wonder: they’re his.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Overall, I feel like book!Crowley had more problems with Hell and show!Crowley had more problems with God, but one can interpret them to have the same source. Crowley & his compatriots were betrayed by Satan, who broke his promises, and arguably God as well. My Crowley has a lot more problems with Hell in his own personal life and is generally pissed off at Heaven for making Aziraphale suffer, but he doesn't have to care about either anymore. God's just a giant shrug at this point. You don't have to worry about someone who obviously doesn't care what you do.


End file.
